Thank god we kept it anonymous.
I jerk to a stop in front of Rev’s house like an impatient taxi driver. I don’t look at him. I don’t even move. I keep my eyes fixed on the windshield.
“We could go back,” he says.
“No.” My voice is rough.
“Dec. She’s stuck there. Anyone could—”
“Good for her.”
“But we should call—”
“Rev.” I swing my head around to glare at him. “Are you going to get out or what?”
He stares back at me. The judgment in his eyes is killing me.
I turn my eyes back to the darkness. My fingers are knotted around the steering wheel. “Get out, Rev.”
He gets out, but he stands there looking at me.
“Where are you going?” he says.
“Home,” I snap. I reach out, grab his door, and slam it.
Then I put the car into gear and drive.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
INBOX: CEMETERY GIRL
No new messages
I’ve refreshed my inbox at least a hundred times. Maybe two hundred.
He told me he was on his way twenty minutes ago. I probably could have walked to school in twenty minutes. The rain has slowed, and now it’s a steady tap-tap-tap-tap on the roof of the car. The headlights went dim a few minutes ago, which must be a sign the battery is getting ready to give up the fight. I kill the headlights, but I leave the parking lights on. The last thing I need is some half-drunk kid slamming into my parked car because he didn’t see me sitting here. I already had a near panic attack when one car veered onto the shoulder, only to swerve around me and accelerate like a bat out of hell.
My dress has started to dry, and for some reason that makes me colder. I keep shivering intermittently.
I try my dad again. No answer.
I try Rowan again. Straight to voice mail. Her phone must have died.
I stare at the screen, willing The Dark to send me a message. Something. I’m going to have to call 9-1-1 in a minute. I don’t know what else to do.
I’ve been sitting in my car for half an hour, not doing a thing to help myself. I try to imagine what Mom would do in this situation. She would have gotten out in the rain and flagged someone down. She would have ended up getting a ride from the ambassador to Australia, and his wife would have offered her a wrap, and Mom would have been invited to dinner at the embassy.
I’d get out, start waving, and end up under some idiot’s tires.
Against my will, tears flood my eyes. Before I realize it, I’m sobbing into my hands. The emotion warms me up from inside, but not in a good way. My shoulders shake from the force of it, and I don’t try to stop them. Why bother? There’s no one here to see.
Knuckles rap on my window.
I gasp and jerk my hands down. A man stands in the rain beside my car.
He’s here! Oh, he’s here! I swipe at my face. My heart cavorts and prances and leaps.
But then my eyes process what they’re seeing. Headlights shine behind us, lighting half his face and filling my car with light.
It’s not The Dark. It’s Declan Murphy.
Because my night didn’t suck enough.
“Are you broken down?” he says loudly.
No, I’m fine, I want to yell back. Go ahead and leave me here.
I push the button to roll the window down, but the motor makes a sad little noise, and then nothing happens. I have to unlock the door manually to open it.
He backs away to give me room, then catches the door in one hand. Cold air streams into the car.
“Did your tire blow out?” he says. “I saw all the rubber in the road.”
“I’ve already c-c-called someone,” I say, hating how I can’t control the shivering now. I wrap my arms around my midsection. “He should b-be here any m-minute.”
His eyes are dark and inscrutable. “So you don’t want any help?”
“No.” I suck a shaky breath through my teeth. “I’m fine.”
He studies me for a long moment, standing there in the rain, his eyes as ice cold as they were behind the school.
“Suit yourself,” he finally says. He swings my door shut and turns away.
I can’t believe my options are sitting here all night or asking Declan for help.
He’s about to get back into his car. I can see him in my rear-view mirror.
Damn it.
I swing my door open and step out of the car. “Wait!”
He stops and looks at me across twenty feet of rain and darkness. His door isn’t open after all, and he was already facing me. Was he coming back to my car? The thought throws me.
We stand there and stare at each other. Rain trickles into my dress.
“Is your battery dead?” he finally says.
I nod. “Yes.” I hesitate. “I didn’t replace it.”
“Shocking.” He jerks his head toward his car. “Come sit in mine so you can warm up.”
I’m halfway to his car when I realize this could be a trick. So you can warm up sounds like the worst kind of double entendre. My steps slow as my instincts kick in, but it’s so cold outside that the rest of me doesn’t give a crap about innuendo.
His car is black—or gray. I can’t quite tell. It doesn’t shine at all, which makes me wonder if it’s been covered in some kind of matte paint, or it’s in desperate need of a paint job. From what I can see of the body, it’s an older vehicle. A long, flat hood leads to a two-door body and a short trunk. Dropping into the passenger seat confirms the age, though the interior is in better shape. Leather seats that are too wide to be modern, no headrests. It’s a stick shift. The radio is old, with silver dials and big white numbers. The windows have crank handles.
I expected the car to smell musty, like rotten foam padding and too many cigarettes, but he must not smoke in here. It smells like old leather with a faint undercurrent of some guy-brand cologne.
Declan slides into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. It roars to life, and he spins a few dials. The center vents immediately shoot warmth at me.
I was sitting as close to the door as I possibly could, but when I feel the heat, I shift forward and press my hands over the openings.
Declan moves toward me, his hand reaching for mine. I jerk back and pull my hands against my stomach, sucking back into the seat.
He gives me a look, then finishes his motion, twisting a dial to flick open the vent closest to the door. “That one sticks,” he says.
Oh.
I still wait for him to shift back to his own space before putting my hands over the vents again. We sit in silence for the longest time, listening to the thrum of the motor, hushed by the loud whisper of air through the vents.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asks suddenly.
I can’t read his voice, and I’m not sure how to answer. His question makes me feel ridiculous—but it sounds like he might be genuinely curious, not cocky.
I chance a glance at him. He hasn’t moved since opening the vents, and now he’s lounging back in the driver’s seat, lit by nothing more than the lights on the dash.
I have to clear my throat. “If I say yes, are you going to use it against me?”
“No.” His voice is even. Almost a challenge.
I look at him. “Then yes. A little.”
Headlights fill the car, a vehicle approaching from behind. I twist in the seat to look. The car doesn’t even slow, sailing past on Generals Highway.
I sigh and rub my arms and put my hands over the vents again.
Declan turns the heat dial even farther to the right. “How long were you out here waiting?”
“I don’t know. Awhile.”
“Why are you all wet? Did you try to change the tire?”
I snort. “I don’t know how to do that. I was just trying to figure out what happened.”
“From the look of your tires, you’re lucky it wasn’t all four.”
“You’re kidding. I was so busy memori
zing the latest copy of Car and Driver before showing up at Homecoming.”
He looks amused. “I’m talking about basic maintenance. You’re the one stranded on the side of the road. I’m scared to ask if you’ve ever bothered to change the oil in that thing.”
I scowl—but he’s right. I don’t think I’ve ever had the oil changed. Headlights fill the car again, and I crane my neck around. Another car goes flying by.
Declan stares out the windshield. “What kind of car are we waiting for?”
I hesitate. “It’s a friend from school. I don’t know what kind of car he drives.”
I expect Declan to give me a hard time about that, but he doesn’t. His jaw looks set, and he keeps staring out the window.
I slide my finger across the screen of my phone, hoping The Dark has sent me a message.
Nothing. I sigh.
“What are you afraid of?”
I look at Declan, but he’s still staring out at the rain. His voice has gone quiet, and he’s not half as threatening as he was.
“I don’t know,” I say.
He gives me a look that reveals flickers of icy judgment. “Liar.”
This is so bizarre. He’s not as furiously angry as he was behind the school, but I’m not sure what to do with this line of questioning. I pull my hands away from the vents and fold my arms across my stomach. “You don’t have the best reputation. That can’t be a surprise.”
“Oh yeah? Tell me about my reputation.”
I hesitate. I don’t know what to say. I know what Brandon told me, and I know about the rumors, but I don’t know what’s true. Not really. “You have a criminal record.”
“So what?” He looks at me. “That’s got nothing to do with you.”
I swallow. “Brandon said you got high and stole a car, then wrecked it.” I pause. “You’ve gotten into fights at school.” Another pause, and I meet his eyes. “You’re pretty confrontational.”
“I’m confrontational?”
He doesn’t bat an eye at accusations of car theft or physical fighting, but calling him confrontational gets a reaction. “Maybe you don’t remember getting in my face and telling me to delete some stupid picture.”
His eyebrows go up. “Maybe you don’t remember accusing me of pouring liquor into the punch bowl.”
My cheeks flare with heat, and I have to look away. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It’s not like you’re the first.” His voice hasn’t changed tone, but he flicks a lever on the dash pretty hard. “You know what sucks? If you pick on someone weak at school, you end up suspended.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“No. But people can say whatever they want to a guy with a reputation, and no one cares. People actually root for it.”
He’s right. Like in the gym, guilt pricks at my senses. “You don’t do much to help yourself. Did you ever consider asking me to delete the picture? Or not calling Brandon a douchebag?”
Declan glares at me. “You think he gave a second thought to what he said about me?”
No. Probably not. I don’t know what to say.
We sit there in silence, listening to the rain rattle the roof.
Declan finally looks away. “Is that what people think?” he finally asks. “That I got high and stole a car?”
“You didn’t?”
He shakes his head. He’s not looking at me now. “I was drunk, not high.”
He says it like it should make a significant difference. “That’s it?”
“No.” He pauses. “I didn’t really steal the car, but my dickhead stepfather pressed charges anyway.”
“It was his car?”
“No. It was my dad’s truck.”
“Why did you—”
“Does it matter?” Declan glances out the back window, agitated now. “How long are you going to wait for this guy?”
I’m thrown by his sudden shift. “Ah . . . I don’t know.”
“Give me your keys.”
“What?”
“Give me your keys. I’m going to change your tire while we’re waiting.”
I fish in my purse and come up with a handful of keys. “You’re going to—”
“Stay in the car.” He grabs the keys and practically yanks them out of my fingers. Then he slams the door in my face.
I watch him in the path of his headlights, mystified. He opens my trunk, and, moments later, emerges with the spare tire. He lays it beside the car, then pulls something else from the darkened space. I’ve never changed a tire, so I have no idea what he’s doing. His movements are quick and efficient, though.
I shouldn’t be sitting here, just watching, but I can’t help myself. There’s something compelling about him. Dozens of cars have passed, but he was the only one to stop—and he’s helping me despite the fact that I’ve been less than kind to him all night.
He gets down on the pavement—on the wet pavement, in the rain—and slides something under the car. A hand brushes wet hair off his face.
I can’t sit here and watch him do this.
He doesn’t look at me when I approach. “I told you to wait in the car.”
“So you’re one of those guys? Thinks the ‘little woman’ should wait in the car?”
“When the little woman doesn’t know her tires are bald and her battery could barely power a stopwatch?” He attaches a steel bar to . . . something . . . and starts twisting it. “Yeah. I am.”
My pride flinches. “So what are you saying?” I ask, deadpan. “You don’t want my help?”
His smile is rueful. “You’re kind of funny when you’re not so busy being judgmental.”
“You’re lucky I’m not kicking you while you’re down there.”
He loses the smile but keeps his eyes on whatever he’s doing. “Try it, sister.”
I’m tempted. This bickering is somehow exhilarating. It’s the first time in months that I’ve had an interaction with someone that didn’t seem to be happening through a fog.
“Why did you want me to delete the picture?” I ask instead.
Whatever he’s twisting hits the car with a metallic thunk, and he stops. He looks up at me. “Is your parking brake on?”
“Um . . .”
“Go. Check.”
I go. I check. It’s not. I pull the lever, then get back out in the rain. He’s using the bar to loosen the bolts that hold the wheel onto the car.
“Thanks,” he says. His voice is tight with strain.
I wait for more, but that’s it. He doesn’t answer my question.
“Are you deliberately not answering me?”
He nods.
“Don’t you need to jack the car up before you can take the wheel off?”
“They need to be loose first. Otherwise pulling on them could push it right off the jack.”
“And that would be bad.”
“Yes. That would be bad.” The muscles in his forearms stand out from the effort. He pushes wet hair off his face again. He attaches the bar to the metal object under the car and continues twisting.
“Is that a jack?” I ask, feeling foolish.
He glances up at me, and his expression makes me wish I’d waited in the car.
I wait until he goes back to the jack and ask, “What are we going to do about the battery?”
“I’ll see if I can jump it again. Then I’ll follow you home. And then you’re going to get a new one tomorrow.” He glances up at me. “Right?”
I nod quickly. “Right.”
Everything about him is so unexpected. He’s so prickly, and then he’ll startle me with words that sound dangerously close to concern.
I watch him in silence, until he has the old wheel off and he’s putting the spare in its place. No cars have gone by in a while, and it’s very quiet out here with the faint whisper of light rain in the trees.
“Did you ever delete it?” he asks, his voice low.
I hesitate. I don’t want to lie to him, but
I’m afraid of his reaction. “No.”
He doesn’t look away from what he’s doing. “Why not?”
“Because you were a dick when you asked me to.”
He laughs softly, under his breath. Then he sobers. “It wasn’t for me.”
“What do you mean?”
He scoops a nut or a bolt or something off the pavement and looks up at me. “I didn’t ask you to delete it for me. It was for Rev.”
“Then why didn’t he ask me to delete it?”
“Rev isn’t like that.”
No, he’s not. I barely know Rev Fletcher, but I can already tell he’s not the type of person to ask much of anyone. Declan Murphy isn’t, either, now that I think about it. This knowledge tugs at my conscience, making me want to go back to the school right this second and delete the photos from Mr. Gerardi’s memory card.
“Rev doesn’t like having his picture taken?”
“No. If you look in the old yearbooks, you’ll see he doesn’t have a portrait in any of them.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
“Why?”
Declan’s hands go still, but he keeps his eyes on the wheel. “Because his father used to hurt him and then take pictures of it.”
It’s so far from what I was thinking that I nearly do a double take. I don’t even know if my imagination is conjuring better or worse images than what really happened to his friend. I want to know more—but I don’t. I’m not sure what to say. “Why?” I whisper.
“Because he was a sadistic bastard. If you ask Rev, he’ll tell you he’s glad it happened, because there was a record of everything that had been done to him.”
Thunder rolls overhead, and I expect the rain to pick up, but it doesn’t. “He was . . . glad?”
Declan shakes his head. “I don’t mean he has a scrapbook. When Rev was taken away, there was no chance of him going back.” He begins twisting the bolts into place. “He still doesn’t like having his picture taken.”
I swallow, and my throat is tight. Shame has me in its grip, and I don’t see it letting go anytime soon. “How would he feel about you telling me this?”
“Fine.” Declan looks at me, holding my eyes. “Rev would know I’m telling you for a reason.”
I shiver. “I won’t gossip about it.”
“I know you won’t.” His voice has lost any trace of an edge. He begins lowering the jack, and I watch him.